Sometimes, when I explain my tattoo to people, they jump to a certain conclusion: “Oh! You just want to be. I get it.” And sometimes, depending on how willing I am to continue the conversation, I correct them. I don’t want to “just be.” To me, there is a connotation of complacency in that statement. The infinitive esse in Latin means “to be,” or “to exist.” As some people suggest, existing isn’t the same as living. And I would have to agree.

I am not here to “just be.” I realized that completely when during arguments, people would tell me to “just be.” Like what the hell? I, as a very non-confrontational person, don’t argue a lot. And now you’re telling me to “just be” when I am expressing my opinions and beliefs? No. If just being weakens my emotions and stances, I am not up for it. And I am definitely not up for anyone telling me to suppress my opinions during an argument. (And I am clearly not up for anyone using my tattoo against me.)

I don’t want to just exist. I owe myself and the world more than that. Have you ever heard of anyone doing good by just existing? By keeping their beliefs quiet? By not accepting who they are? I’m 99% sure that I haven’t. I owe it to myself to love everything that I am. I owe it to the world to be generous and thoughtful and intentional. Everyone in my life has given me so much and it would be selfish of me to waste it all in complacency.

When I first watched a needle with black ink nick my skin (and when I first worried that the font I chose was too round for the tattoo artist), I did not realize how much courage it would take to be things. I wanted to be honest and authentic and me, but I didn’t even know how to start that process. It wasn’t a switch that I could easily flick on. It was not a one day registration of saying “I am going to be authentic” and then automatically writing a post about being okay with my sadness. It was nothing near that miracle. It took days of realizing my fears. It took weeks of fighting against my emotional wall. It took months of confronting my fear of loving too much and not having that sentiment returned. I was afraid that as a person, I was not enough, and that as an emotional being, I was too much. It was an uncomfortable paradox of believing that both of those statements would allow people to leave me. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to control my emotions if I actually knew what they were. I was afraid that I would never see the end of my sadness, or the end of my hurt, or the end of any big emotion that was fighting against that emotional wall. I was afraid that at the root of the fear, all of the emotions were too much for me. It was a choice every day to act against that fear. It was a choice to let people into my bubble. It was a choice to look for cracks in my emotional wall. It was a choice to substantialize all of my insecurities and negative thoughts. I wanted to be better than my disappointments, than my fears, than my emotional inertia.

I want to be ecstatic. I want to be frustrated. I want to be in love and grumpy and smart. (I’m grumpy all of the time. Bryce says I’m like an old man who’s mad at the sun for shining. True.) I don’t want to “just be.” If I’m okay with where I am at, there is no incentive for progress. I recognize the room for growth in me. I acknowledge the astounding amount of growing that I have done already. I am looking to be all of the things, and I am courageous enough to try.

Today, I am still not in control of my emotional response to things. I am in no way the ruler of the hormonal mess that is my body. However, I am trying to accept every emotion that I feel. I want to give my emotions authenticity instead of shame. I want to express them to those closest to me because it is a form of connection, not separation.

In an Instagram post near the end of my senior year, I dramatically wrote “I am a bundle of fears. But I am so much more than that.” And finally, I feel like I am more than my fears. I am choosing to be more than my fears. And I am so proud of myself.